


A Meeting of (Rather Deranged) Minds

by ComicBooksBro



Category: House of Leaves - Mark Z. Danielewski, John Dies at the End - David Wong
Genre: Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Fear, Gen, I'm Bad At Tagging, John Cheese Being an Idiot, Tattoo Artist Johnny Truant, Tattoos, i guess?, my first crossover!, no beta we die like men, this is shit sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:15:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26106301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComicBooksBro/pseuds/ComicBooksBro
Summary: John wants a tattoo, Johnny is a tattoo artist, and they've all got stories to tell.
Relationships: Amy Sullivan/David Wong (background), John Cheese & David Wong
Comments: 4
Kudos: 6





	A Meeting of (Rather Deranged) Minds

**Author's Note:**

> So... first crossover here! I've wanted to write something between these two universes ever since I picked up JDatE for the first time, and, well... here I am. It's not the best, but I finished it! 
> 
> Disclaimer: House is not in blue because I'm a lazy idiot.

John Cheese was a massive fucking idiot.

David Wong knew this, and had known this for several years, so when John called him up three in the morning, he expected the worst. For them, ‘worst’ ranged anywhere from the actual fucking apocalypse, to ‘John got drunk and can’t walk home from Denny’s.’

Tonight, it was neither.

Tonight, John had decided that he wanted to get a tattoo. He had some already, of course, because he was John, but _now_ he wanted another one. One of a wig-monster, specifically.

 _"C’mooooooon, Dave,”_ he had slurred into the phone. _“It’ll be fuuuuuun! We’re a team, we need—we need monster-hunting tattoos! Because we hunt monsters!”_

“No, John,” Dave mumbled, intending on hanging up and going back to sleep.

 _“Pleeeaaaase!”_ Dave could hear John’s car roaring to life over the phone. “No.”

 _“M’kay, I’m gonna come pick you up, bye.”_ Dave dropped the phone and pressed his head into his pillow. All he had wanted to do was sleep, but here came John, and he wasn’t going to leave until he got what he wanted. Reluctantly, Dave dragged himself out of bed and left a note for Amy on the table. He could already hear Creedence Clearwater Revival blaring from somewhere up the street.

There was no way he was getting out of this.

***

So here he was, following John through a dingy street in the shadier part of town, looking for a tattoo shop John swore existed. They had gone up and down the street at least three times, and seen nothing. Dave was just about to suggest giving up and heading back home so he could get some sleep before work, when John stopped him.

“There,” he said, pointing to a tiny, grime-coated store with a small _open_ sign glowing in the dirty window. Reaffirming his hypothesis that this was a terrible idea, Dave grudgingly followed John inside.

It was like any other tattoo shop Dave had been in (which didn’t amount to much), just more cluttered and dirtier. An older man sat behind the counter, reading a magazine. He looked up when they entered, then waved them over to a chair in the back of the shop. Dave shivered, feeling like the grime of the shop had gotten under his skin already. No, he definitely wasn’t getting a tattoo here. Or hopefully ever.

John bounded ahead, completely oblivious to Dave’s discomfort (or maybe he just didn’t care—both were equally plausible.

Another man—the tattoo artist, Dave assumed—leaned against the chair, rapidly scribbling something in a beat-up notepad. He had dark hair and looked greasy, like he hadn’t showered in days. He looked up as John walked closer, and Dave felt his heart stop in terror. The man’s eyes were shiny with fear and forbidden knowledge, all swirling around in a pool of complete fucking insanity.

Dave averted his eyes, not wanting to look at the man any longer, and checked out the rest of the shop. The tiles under his feet were checkered green, and what had once been white, but was now a streaky brown-grey. Most of the right wall of the shop was lined with sketches and pictures of tattoos. All of them were expertly drawn, and looked relatively normal, except for a few sketches along the bottom of the wall.

Almost entranced, Dave walked closer. The first picture was very rough, barely more than lines on paper, but the more Dave looked at it, the more he was sure he could make out the image of a house. Just a nomral looking, plain, stick figured house. The second image was more defined and depicted a monster that Dave strained to remember the name of, but couldn’t. A third was of the same house as the first, only more defined, and with rooms that stretched out like a maze below it.

Dave was suddenly consumed with a distant feeling of claustrophobia.

**_This is not for you._ **

He looked away and turned back to John, who was showing a piece of paper to the tattoo artist. As Dave walked closer, he saw that is was a crude rendering of a wig-monster—why John would want that on his skin permanently was beyond Dave, but John wasn’t always (ever) the most rational person. The tattoo artist took John’s paper, shrugged, and motioned for John to sit in the chair, which he did.

“Hey, John, are you sure you want to do this?” Dave asked, edging closer to the chair. A tattoo gun started to buzz.

John smiled and flashed Dave a thumbs up. “Yeah!” Dave rolled his eyes and nervously drummed his fingers on his leg.

“So,” the tattoo artist said, eyes shifting under the harsh light. “’S there a story behind this one?” He pointed at the drawing of the wig monster.

Dave groaned inwardly as John launched into the long complicated tale that was the past couple years of their lives: the levitating Jamaican, the soy sauce, Korrok, all of it. You see, most people would keep shit like this secret, but not John. He seemed determined to blurt out their story to anyone who would listen.

Most people were either drunk and thought it was a joke, or laughed and called him crazy. It all rolled off John like oil on water, though, because he was just that kind of person. The tattoo artist, out of it as he seemed, payed close attention to John’s story, and even asked a few questions.

And then he started telling a story of his own.

Dave thought—hell, he _knew_ —that his and John’s story was crazy, and maybe a little deranged in some spots, but this guy was… for lack of a better word: insane.

Or, he would appear so to almost anyone else.

Dave could tell from the tone of the tattoo artist’s voice that he wasn’t making it up. The dullish, matter-of-fact tone he used when recounting his life couldn’t have been anything but genuine. Some of the stuff he said made Dave want to throw up, but John seemed completely unaffected.

The shitty childhood Dave could handle, he had a pretty rough one himself, he could even tolerate the numerous (oh so very, _very_ numerous) and overly detailed encounters with strippers. What really shook Dave, was the house. The tattoo artist only spent a couple minutes describing it before going back to his attempt to fuck his way through whatever tiny town he lived in, but the description of the house chilled Dave to the core. Maybe it was the wording, maybe it was the way in which the words were delivered, or maybe it was just the concept itself, but Dave could feel the cold, dark walls of the house pressing on on him, illusionary, yet so real in the moment, and hungry, though for what, he wasn’t sure.

Dave was snapped back to reality by a smack on his shoulder.

“Hey, we’re done,” John called, waving his hand in front of Dave’s face. “You okay?”

“ Yeah,” Dave said, still shaking away the last remnants of the housefrom his mind. “Let’s go.” He started forward, legs shaking, mind still a mess of _what the fuck_ as John payed. They were at the door, so close to leaving and never needing to see or even _think_ about this shop ever again when—

“Hey,” the tattoo artist called, prompting John and Dave to turn around. “Do me a favor—if you’re ever in Virginia, stay away from Ash Tree Lane.”

“Okay, man,” John said, pulling out his phone and typing in _Ass Tree Lane Vagina._ Then he squinted at the screen and retyped: _Ash Tree Lane Virginia._ he passed the phone to Dave, grinning like a maniac as they stepped out into the street.

“John, no.” Dave groaned, slipping John’s phone into his pocket. Now that they were out in the open, Dave’s sudden claustrophobia had decreased rapidly, and he was more annoyed than anything.

“John _yes."_ John replied enthusiastically. “Now give my phone back, dick.”

Dave sighed heavily and passed the phone back. “I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos appreciated!
> 
> <3


End file.
